


Yield All

by swevene



Category: Kushiel's Legacy - Jacqueline Carey
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, Bondage, F/M, Humiliation, Prostitution, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-26
Updated: 2012-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-30 04:13:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/327598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swevene/pseuds/swevene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another way Phedre and Joscelin could have met- Joscelin is, after all, beautiful enough to have been from the Night Court.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yield All

The first time I saw him, I fell somewhat in love—no matter that I was seven and he was scarcely older. Joscelin, marque newly bought by the Dowayne of Cereus House, was simply the most beautiful boy I’d ever seen. His parents had died in an accident, they said, leaving him an orphan of unknown provenance.

The Night Court was likely the kindest of the fates that he could have known.

He was silent for the first months of his fostering, watching everything but saying little. I watched him in turn, rather shamelessly—he fascinated me with his silence and his austere beauty, nothing like the fragile flowers of Cereus House. 

He did not speak, at least not to me, until the day that Father Louvel gave us the anemones. Distracted by the pain washing through me and the sight of my own blood, I didn’t hear him approach until his hand closed around my wrist, pulling it towards him. “You should be more careful,” he observed. His voice was pleasant, if quiet—but then, he was not in the habit of speaking much.

I snatched my hand back, scowling at him. “I did it on purpose! I’m not that clumsy.”

“Oh.” He tilted his head, then nodded, as if he understood. He released my wrist and another rush of feeling, a sense of loss, came over me. I’d wanted him to keep touching me- holding my wrist that way, awkward as the position had been.

It only got worse when he turned away, marching off on some errand.

I don’t know why he followed me the afternoon I ran away. I’d been outside the walls for only a moment or two at most when I heard a light step behind me and turned, frightened- but it was Joscelin, his arms crossed. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to come back inside.”

I hesitated, but shook my head firmly.

“Very well.” He took my hand firmly. “I’ll come with you, then. I can’t let you wander off alone. You’d get lost or worse.”

I would have protested his slight to my competence, but the way he laced his fingers with mine was very distracting and I didn’t have the chance.

I don’t think he liked Hyacinthe as much as I did, though I thought that perhaps he enjoyed himself. It was hard to tell, as quiet as he was. He took the scolding on our return with his usual equanimity, not even having the grace to look ashamed.

I found that I rather liked him for that, beyond his beauty and the apparent favour he held for me.

It was worse the second time, and finally the third. They could do little enough to me—the whipping was hardly harsh punishment to one such as I, though Joscelin still attempted to mitigate it by claiming that it was entirely his idea. That only made his punishment worse.

They sold his marque, and I did not see him again for more than ten years.

\---

Delaunay had had his doubts about this assignation. The circumstances were somewhat odd—a Kusheline noble, crippled by a hunting accident, wished to see me with another, an adept of Mandrake House. I doubt that he would have accepted de Bonnel’s proposal had the house not had a history with _anguissettes_. 

So I found myself dressed luxuriously—a creamy white silk gown with a high collar that rendered it nearly modest, though the thin material clung to my curves in a manner that was sinful—and kneeling before a man lying on a couch. He was younger than I would have thought with, his golden hair braided over one shoulder, clad entirely in black.

He pulled my head back with a firm grip on my hair, his cold blue eyes searching mine. “The last _anguissette_ in Terre d’Ange was wed to my great-grandsire, you know.”

I swallowed, trying to make my words come in spite of the sudden tightness of my throat. I could feel shivers of heat run through me, making some somewhat dizzy. “I know, my lord.”

“I could not miss a chance to see what he so enjoyed,” the Duc mused almost idly. His grip on my hair was unrelenting, my head craned back so awkwardly. I could feel my breath beginning to come more quickly.

When he released me, I missed the pain though I made no sign of it, bowing my head and kneeling _abeyante_. I heard a door open behind me and a pair of booted feet cross the floor in long strides. I was curious, but my training held—I didn’t raise my head or look around at all, though I wanted to see this Mandrake adept. I had not seen one since that long-ago Midwinter Masque, and I wondered what he would be like from a closer perspective.

I could feel him behind me, his presence making my skin prickle although he was not yet touching me. I wanted to sway back, to feel his strength supporting me.

He seemed to pay me no mind. “Good evening, my lord.” His voice was even and calm, almost entirely lacking inflection—as though he intended to discuss the weather.

“Good evening.” Our patron inclined his head politely, a faint smile playing about his lips. “You have followed my instructions admirably.”

“Of course. Is there anything else in particular that you would wish from me?” The tips of his fingers barely brushed my hair and I had to stop myself from leaning into that caress. My whole body was shivering with anticipation now.

“I am sure that you will be able to enjoy yourself appropriately.” There was the sound of velvet drapes being drawn, and I risked a glance from under my lowered lashes to see that the curtains that had covered one side of the wall had been pulled back to reveal a well-stocked flagellary.

“Come.” It was the adept speaking, stepping past me. I could see his legs now, long and highly-polished black boots over tight black doeskin breeches. I began to stand, but was stopped by his voice.

“I did not say that you could rise.” Though there was little more expression than there had been, there was yet an edge of menace in it, and I sank hastily back to my knees, gritting my teeth as I began to crawl after him. It was humiliating, but I could feel the heat begin to rise again between my legs. The soft carpet gave way to bare floor, the hard wood making my knees ache.

“Up.” He tapped the back of my head sharply.

I rose with alacrity, daring to raise my eyes now. The adept was blond, the hair nearly the same hue as our patron’s, and with an austere beauty that matched or surpassed any I’d seen. It was a familiar face, though it took me a moment to place it.

When I did, I could not help an in-drawn breath of shock and an exclamation. “ _Joscelin?!_ ”


End file.
